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chapter sixteen a barbie dream house but all the dolls are kitchen knives
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Here was the deal: Izzy Windsor wanted to be free. It had been all she ever wanted since she was a little girl and first discovered what it felt like to ride a bike down the road with her hands stretched out at her sides and her head tilted back as the wind whistled in her ears. Being free was what she desired. If you asked her to wish upon a shooting star, that would be what she wished for—freedom.
But she didn't know if she could ever truly be free. Maybe she could have some freedom, but there would always be this weight pressing on her chest every time her father's voice chimed in the back of her head. He had this hold over her . . . like he was keeping her on a short leash, and tugging every time she fucked up. And to him, she fucked up a lot.
So, yeah, she wanted to be free and she could dream about it all she liked, but she didn't know if she could ever truly be that. It seemed like a fantasy. Because, you see, she had one foot in the past and one foot in the present, but she couldn't quite seem to take that extra step to move on. It was like she was stuck, and she didn't know how to unglue her feet.
And as she and the group headed closer toward the Crain house, she was reminded of all the things which trapped her in the past. Her mother's death being one of her ghosts.
Izzy tried to remind herself that she was alive; that she wasn't going to die in a car crash just like her mother. Because she wasn't her mother, and she wouldn't die like her either. JJ's hand on her knee helped ground her to reality, and soon she felt herself slowly relax into her seat . . . but not completely. Her mind was still clouded over with irritational scenarios where the van would just suddenly combust or flip over. She tried to silence them, but they wouldn't budge.
When the van finally came to a halt in front of the Crain estate, Izzy felt herself breathe a sigh of relief. She was itching to jump out of that damned death trap. She glanced out the window, narrowing her eyes at the house. She remembered playing there as a kid with the people she used to call her friends. But they weren't anymore. That thought made her feel more sure of her decision to join the so-called Pogues on this hunt. It made her think that maybe the line between the two groups was blurred. People were just people. It should have never mattered how much money the other had. She hated that her father had implemented that idea in her head in the first place.
